


Fine Like This

by araliya



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 19:38:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15956129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/araliya/pseuds/araliya
Summary: A stolen moment.





	Fine Like This

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics from Troye Sivan's Animal.

_(i want you all to myself)_

 

Darren sits at the window seat and looks out onto the green and gold New York street, at people walking their dogs and holding hands with their children in the late afternoon sun. He could get out his work or scroll through his phone, but Darren’s fine like this. As he swings his legs up onto the seat, a little girl scoops up her puppy into her arms and totters down the road to her mother.

 

She passes by the steps of the apartment and a sleek black car pulls in opposite her. A man gets out, making his way around to the back of the car and popping open the boot. He pulls out a suitcase and closes the lid again, raising a hand to shield his eyes as he squints up at the apartment.

 

Darren holds his hand up in a tiny wave. Chris smiles, but doesn’t wave back. Even out here, in the middle of an innocent street full of giddy newlyweds and gentle pensioners, they can never be careful enough.

 

After all, there isn’t supposed to be anyone but him in this apartment.

 

Darren knocks his head back against the wall, counting the floors that the elevator must be passing through the slow slide to the very top of the building. Soon enough, a key turns in the lock and the door creaks as it opens. He hears the squeaky roll of the suitcase and the soft slide of shoes being toed off, before Chris walks towards him. Darren turns around so that he can greet him properly.

 

“Hi,” he says, letting Darren take his hand and thread their fingers together.

 

“Hey.”

 

Chris leans down to accept his kiss, Darren pushing a hand into his hair and relishing the deep, involuntary inhale that comes with it. Chris pulls back after a moment that seems like too little (always too little, Darren thinks), eyes bright.

 

“When did you arrive?”

 

“Twelve-ish. The traffic wasn’t too bad.”

 

“Mm,” Chris hums, and up close, Darren knows he can see the faint purple bruises under his eyes. “You’re tired,” he states quietly, brushing a thumb across the soft, slightly swollen skin. He doesn’t say it like a question- Darren would never admit to it for fear of worrying him. He’s aware it’s utterly futile- if anyone were to notice, it would be Chris.

 

“Not terribly,” Darren replies. It’s worth a try.

 

Chris doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. “I’m all stale and aeroplan-ey,” he says instead. “Shower?”

 

Darren had one earlier, but he says yes anyway. And Chris kisses him once more, saying all of the words they don’t get to outside of here.

 

***

 

_(no angels could beckon me back, it’s hotter than hell where I’m at)_

 

Steam rises off the dark tiles and clouds the room, smelling faintly of pine and sandalwood. They climb out of their clothes wordlessly, brushing elbows and thighs in the small marble-lined space.

 

Once they step into the shower, they take turns under the spray, holding onto each other like anchors as they try not to get soap in their eyes. Chris lets Darren thread his fingers through his hair to disperse the shampoo, head dropping back ever so slightly as every muscle in his body grows lax.

 

“Good?” Darren asks, voice low and rough and  _laughing_ , and Chris can’t summon the energy to open his eyes and glare at him.

 

The water at their feet runs foamy and then clear, and Darren lets up to pour a little conditioner into Chris’ palm. It’s the one Darren uses specifically for his untameable hair, the one Chris likes to use sometimes.

 

He swallows a memory of sitting in the bathtub once several years ago, face hot with suppressed tears as the overwhelming smell of  _Darren_ surrounded him. The memory sinks back into his chest like the kraken back into its lagoon- often imperceptible but always there.

 

Chris tries not to think about that one too often. Not when Darren’s standing right there in front of him, warm and pliant and  _real_ under his craving hands.

 

They towel off, breathing in thick, pine-scented air. It clouds the mirror and forms a hair-thin dew on the counter, minute droplets of it clinging to Darren’s lashes. They drag and leave dampness on Darren’s cheeks as he blinks, and Chris can’t help but notice the heaviness of the movement, the way his irises have slowly gone dull.

 

“Nap?” he asks, brushing Darren’s damp hair out of his eyes.

 

“You came with me so that we could spend time together,” Darren protests, albeit rather feebly.

 

“Napping counts.”

 

And so they traipse into the bedroom halfway like the undead, Darren curling around him as soon as their bodies hit the sheets. He’s asleep within minutes- a trait that Chris has always envied. They’re also both going to have the worst bed head, going to sleep with wet hair, but Chris couldn’t care less.

 

Moments like this are all he could ever ask for.

 

***

 

_(you’re mine, tell me who to do I owe that to)_

 

Darren wakes, warm and sunk half a mile into the mattress. It takes a moment for him to realise that it’s Chris wrapped around him, arm heavy across his chest, and that they’ve made their way into the little dip in the middle of the bed.

 

(On days when Chris isn’t there with him, he avoids that dip like the plague. Usually the couch suffices.)

 

The sun has set so far down that the room is bathed in a dark blue glow; they’ve been asleep for at least a few hours. Darren shifts a little, but doesn’t make to get up.

 

There’s a plane to catch and a bag to re-pack, but for now, Darren’s fine like this. 


End file.
